THE WHISPER IN THE DARK
'Phemie was very bold--until something really scared her--and then she
was quite likely to lose her head altogether. Lyddy was timid by nature,
but an emergency forced her courage to high pressure.
They both, however, tried to ignore the fact that they were alone in the
old house, far up on the mountainside, and a considerable distance from
any neighbor.
That was why they chattered so all through supper--and afterward. Neither
girl cared to let silence fall upon the room.
The singing of the kettle on the crane was a blessing. It made music that
drove away "that lonesome feeling." And when it actually bubbled over and
the drip of it fell hissing into the fire, 'Phemie laughed as though it
were a great joke.
"Such a jolly thing as an open fire is, I declare," she said, sitting down
at last in one of the low, splint-bottomed chairs, when the supper dishes
were put away. "I don't blame Grandfather Phelps for refusing to allow
stoves to be put up in his day."
"I fancy it would take a deal of wood to heat the old house in real cold
weather," Lyddy said. "But it _is_ cheerful."
"Woo-oo! woo-oo-oo!" moaned the wind around the corner of the house. A
ghostly hand rattled a shutter. Then a shrill whistle in the chimney
startled them.
At such times the sisters talked all the faster--and louder. It was really
quite remarkable how much they found to say to each other.
They wondered how father was getting along at the hospital, and if Aunt
Jane would surely see him every day or two, and write them. Then they
exchanged comments upon what they had seen of Bridleburg, and finally
fell back upon the Pritchetts as a topic of conversation--and that family
seemed an unfailing source of suggestion until finally 'Phemie jumped
up, declaring:
"What's the use of this, Lyd? Let's go to bed. We're both half scared to
death, but we'll be no worse off in bed----And, b-r-r-r! the fire's going
down."
They banked the fire as Lucas had advised them, put out the lamp, and
retired with the candle to the bedroom. The straw mattress rustled as
though it were full of mice, when the sisters had said their prayers and
climbed into bed. 'Phemie blew out the candle; but she had laid matches
near it on the high stand beside her pillow.
"I hope there _are_ feather beds in the garret," she murmured, drowsily.
"This old straw is _so_ scratchy."
"We'll look to-morrow," Lyddy said. "Aunt Jane said we could make use of
anything we found here. But, my! it's a big house for only three people."
"It is," admitted 'Phemie. "I'd feel a whole lot better if it was full of
folks."
"I have it!" exclaimed Lyddy, suddenly. "We might take boarders."
"Summer boarders?" asked her sister, curiously.
"I--I s'pose so."
"That's a long way ahead. It's winter yet," and 'Phemie snuggled down
into her pillow. "Folks from the city would never want to come to an old
house like this--with so few conveniences in it."
"_We_ like it; don't we?" demanded Lyddy.
"I don't know whether we do yet, or not," replied 'Phemie. "Let's wait
and see."
'Phemie was drowsy, yet somehow she couldn't fall asleep. Usually she
was the first of the two to do so; but to-night Lyddy's deeper breathing
assured the younger sister that she alone was awake in all the great,
empty house.
And Sairy Pritchett had intimated that Hillcrest was haunted!
Now, 'Phemie didn't believe in ghosts--not at all. She would have been
very angry had anyone suggested that there was a superstitious strain in
her character.
Yet, as she lay there beside her sleeping sister she began to hear the
strangest sounds.
It wasn't the wind; nor was it the low crackling of the fire on the
kitchen hearth. She could easily distinguish both of these. Soon, too,
she made out the insistent gnawing of a rat behind the mopboard. That
long-tailed gentleman seemed determined to get in; but 'Phemie was not
afraid of rats. At least, not so long as they kept out of sight.
But there were other noises. Once 'Phemie had all but lost herself in
sleep when--it seemed--a voice spoke directly in her ear. It said:
"_I thought I'd find you here._"
'Phemie started into a sitting posture in the rustling straw bed. She
listened hard.
The voice was silent. The fire was still. The wind had suddenly dropped.
Even the rat had ceased his sapping and mining operations.
What had frightened Mr. Rat away?
He, too, must have heard that mysterious voice. 'Phemie could not believe
she had imagined it.
Was that a rustling sound? Were those distant steps she heard--somewhere
in the house? Did she hear a door creak?
She slipped out of bed, drew on her woollen wrapper and thrust her feet
into slippers. She saw that it was bright moonlight outside, for a pencil
of light came through a chink in one of the shutters.
Lyddy slept as calmly as a baby--and 'Phemie was glad. Of course, it
was all foolishness about ghosts; but she believed there was somebody
prowling about the house.
She lit the candle and after the flame had sputtered a bit and began to
burn clear she carried it into the kitchen. Their little round alarm clock
ticked modestly on the dresser. It was not yet ten o'clock.
"Not the 'witching hour of midnight, when graveyards yawn'--and other
people do, too," thought 'Phemie, giggling nervously. "Surely ghosts
cannot be walking yet."
Indeed, she was quite assured that what she had heard--both the voice
and the footsteps--were very much of the earth, earthy. There was nothing
supernatural in the mysterious sounds.
And it seemed to 'Phemie as though the steps had retreated toward the east
ell--the other wing of the rambling old farmhouse.
What was it Lucas Pritchett had said about his father using the
cellar under the east wing at Hillcrest? Yet, what would bring Cyrus
Pritchett--or anybody else--up here to the vinegar cellar at ten
o'clock at night?
'Phemie grew braver by the minute. She determined to run this mystery
down, and she was quite sure that it would prove to be a very human and
commonplace mystery after all. She opened the door between the kitchen and
the dark side hall by which they had first entered the old house that
afternoon. Although she had never been this way, 'Phemie knew that out of
this square hall opened a long passage leading through the main house
to the east wing.
And she easily found the door giving entrance to this corridor. But she
hesitated when she stood on the threshold, and almost gave up the venture
altogether.
A cold, damp breath rushed out at her--just as though some huge,
subterranean monster lay in wait for her in the darkness--a darkness
so dense that the feeble ray of her candle could only penetrate it a
very little way.
"How foolish of me!" murmured 'Phemie. "I've come so far--I guess I can
see it through."
She certainly did not believe that the steps and voice were inside the
house. The passage was empty before her. She refused to let the rising
tide of trepidation wash away her self-control.
So she stepped in boldly, holding the candle high, and proceeded along
the corridor. There were tightly closed doors on either side, and behind
each door was a mystery. She could not help but feel this. Every door was
a menace to her peace of mind.
"But I will _not_ think of such things," she told herself. "I know if
there _is_ anybody about the house, it is a very human somebody
indeed--and he has no business here at this time of night!"
In her bed-slippers 'Phemie's light feet fell softly on the frayed
oilcloth that carpeted the long hall. Dimly she saw two or three heavy,
ancient pieces of furniture standing about--a tall escritoire with
three paneled mirrors, which reflected herself and her candle dimly; a
long davenport with hungry arms and the dust lying thick upon its
haircloth upholstery; chairs with highly ornate spindles in their
perfectly "straight up and down," uncomfortable-looking backs.
She came to the end of the hall. A door faced her which she was sure
must lead into the east wing. There, Aunt Jane had said, old Dr. Polly
Phelps had had his office, consultation room, and workshop, or laboratory.
'Phemie's hand hesitated on the latch.
Should she venture into the old doctor's rooms? The greater part of his
long and useful life had been spent behind this green-painted door.
'Phemie, of course, had never seen her grandfather; but she had seen
his picture--that of a tall, pink-faced, full-bodied man, his cheeks
and lips cleanly shaven, but with a fringe of silvery beard under his
chin, and long hair.
It seemed to her for a moment as though, if she opened this door, the
apparition of the old doctor, just as he was in his picture, would be
there to face her.
"You little fool!" whispered the shaken 'Phemie to herself. "Go on!"
She lifted the latch. The door seemed to stick. She pressed her knee
against the panel; it did not give at all.
And then she discovered that the door was locked. But the key was there,
and in a moment she turned it creakingly and pushed the door open.
The air in the corridor had been still; but suddenly a strong breeze drew
this green door wide open. The wind rushed past, blew out the candle,
and behind her the other door, which she had left ajar, banged heavily,
echoing and reechoing through the empty house.
'Phemie was startled, but she understood at once the snuffing of her
candle and the closing of the other door. She only hoped Lyddy would
not be frightened by the noise--or by her absence from her side.
"I'll see it through, just the same," declared the girl, her teeth set
firmly on her lower lip. "Ha! driven away by a draught--not I!"
She groped her way into the room and closed the green door. There was a
match upon her candlestick and she again lighted the taper. Quickly the
first room in this east wing suite was revealed to her gaze.
This had been the anteroom, or waiting-room for the old doctor's patients.
There was a door opening on the side porch. A long, old-fashioned settee
stood against one wall, and some splint-bottomed chairs were set stiffly
about the room, while a shaky mahogany table, with one pedestal leg,
occupied the center of the apartment.
'Phemie was more careful of the candle now and shielded the flame with
her hollowed palm as she pushed open the door of the adjoining room.
Here was a big desk with a high top and drop lid, while there were rows
upon rows of drawers underneath. A wide-armed chair stood before the desk,
just as it must have been used by the old doctor. The room was lined to
the ceiling with cases of books and cupboards. Nobody had disturbed the
doctor's possessions after his death. No younger physician had "taken
over" his practice.
'Phemie went near enough to see that the desk, and the cupboards as well,
were locked. There was a long case standing like an overgrown clock-case
in one corner. The candle-light was reflected in the front of this case
as though the door was a mirror.
But when 'Phemie approached it she saw that it was merely a glass door
with a curtain of black cambric hung behind it. She was curious to know
what was in the case. It had no lock and key and she stretched forth a
tentative hand and turned the old-fashioned button which held it closed.
The door seemed fairly to spring open, as though pushed from within,
and, as it swung outward and the flickering candle-light penetrated its
interior, 'Phemie heard a sudden surprising sound.
Somewhere--behind her, above, below, in the air, all about her--was a
sigh! Nay, it was more than a sigh; it was a mighty and unmistakable yawn!
And on the heels of this yawn a voice exclaimed:
"I'm getting mighty tired of this!"
'Phemie flashed her gaze back to the open case. Fear held her by the
throat and choked back the shriek she would have been glad to utter.
For, dangling there in the case, its eyeless skull on a level with her
own face, hung an articulated skeleton; and to 'Phemie Bray's excited
comprehension it seemed as though both the yawn and the apt speech which
followed it, had proceeded from the grinning jaws of the skull!